


Trifle

by Petronia



Series: Hannibal stories [9]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Food Kink, JustFuckMeUp, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Season/Series 03, Sex Toys, Whipped Cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7181567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The texture is suggestive, yes,” Hannibal said. “One might say a game of allusions, which is not unusual in the pastry arts. Consider the shape of a cream puff: plump, cloven in half, and generously filled for display.”</p><p>“Éclairs are phallic,” Will said, faintly. He realized, with humiliation, that his legs had reflexively fallen open as well. </p><p>Custard was everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trifle

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't make the #JustFuckMeUp kink fest in time, to no one's surprise, but I've enjoyed everyone else's output so much over the course of the week that I was strongly moved to offer up a gift in return. So I've bent the rules, but only out of love. XD
> 
> This is, uh, a fic in which Hannibal fucks Will in a tub of éclair cream.
> 
> Probably it was always going to come to this.

  


Will had been out on the pool deck for a couple of hours when Hannibal came to find him. He bent to kiss Will, lingering, on the side of his jaw and behind his ear.

“Come back to the house,” he said. “I have dessert ready, in the bath.”

“In the bath?” said Will. Hannibal only kissed him again.

It took a few seconds for Will to realize, after Hannibal straightened and left, that he’d taken Will’s bourbon with him -- bottle and glass. Which was to say Hannibal had been watching him, and had timed his intervention: Will hadn’t drunk enough to fall asleep, but he had drunk enough to unwind. And, perhaps, to be amenable to bad ideas.

 

***

 

Before Will became caretaker to a cannibalistic murderer, he had been caretaker to up to seven dogs at a given time, of varying degrees of working breed heritage. Some of them had also been intellectual over-achievers. Like owner, like mutt, really.

He was  _ acutely _ aware of the destructive potential of boredom.

It was good, he told himself, for Hannibal to have projects. So much the better if the projects did not involve murder, or abetting murder, or “allowing” Will to “stumble” “by chance” into transparent situations where he might be required to save an innocent by stabbing a man in the throat. To be fair, Hannibal was good at entertaining himself: he composed and swam and made terrifyingly geometric herb plantings and, of course, he cooked. 

He also liked to experiment during sex. A lot.

Really a lot.

If Will were to be honest -- and he tried to be, these days -- boredom wasn’t the issue. Rather that with Will’s proximity, something inside Hannibal had slowly racked into focus, like a lens. The result was merely what occurred when a mind like Hannibal’s began to follow, not multiple trains of thought, but the proverbial single track.

Will felt it always, now, when Hannibal looked at him: an obsessive, erotic need that could burn as easily as it warmed. 

Its counterpart coiled darkly inside Will’s skin, and was glad.

 

***

 

The bathroom was spotless, and smelled, sweetly, of cherries and vanilla sugar.

“How did you even,” Will said, and gave up before finishing the sentence. He looked at Hannibal, who looked alert and curious, the way he always did when he’d set up his dominos and only needed to give them a tap. “You can’t expect me to -- I haven’t showered.”

“I don’t want you to,” Hannibal said, to which there was no rejoinder. He crowded Will close and slid his arms around Will’s waist, with intent, rucking up his shirt and palming his ass through the cotton of his shorts. “Will you take these off, please?”

Will took off everything. Hannibal handed him over the fluted edge of the bathtub as he might have handed him into a carriage. Will let himself sink down, gingerly, into the fluffy white peaks.

It wasn’t whipped cream all the way down. He was half submerged in a thick, pleasantly cool liquid, with the kind of silken texture that threatened to rapidly become sticky. The cherry-vanilla scent was very strong.

Will lifted a hand, experimentally, and licked -- clearing a stripe from mid-forearm to wrist. He kept his eyes locked on Hannibal’s face, and watched the latter’s pupils dilate.

“Tastes like custard,” he said. “With cherry syrup.”

“ _Crème pâtissière et coulis de petits fruits rouges,_ ” Hannibal said, which was just the same thing in French as far as Will could tell. He sank down, a little, as if it were a real bath, and lifted a cream-covered foot so it dangled over the edge.

“You’ll have to explain it to me,” he said. “Is it the visual? Or, ah, an alternative to the  _ parsley-thyme infusion?  _ Will Graham, served two ways?”

“You’re nervous,” Hannibal said. He sat at the edge of the bathtub, cradled Will’s foot in both hands, and bent to suck a dollop of whipped cream off his big toe. Will’s mouth fell open. 

“Or it’s the... texture,” he said. 

“The texture is suggestive, yes,” Hannibal said. “One might say a game of allusions, which is not unusual in the pastry arts. Consider the shape of a cream puff: plump, cloven in half, and generously filled for display.”

“Éclairs are phallic,” Will said, faintly. He realized, with humiliation, that his legs had reflexively fallen open as well. 

Custard was everywhere.

“Quite so,” Hannibal said, sounding pleased. He made an object appear from somewhere behind him -- it was one of the sleek, surgical steel toys Hannibal favoured, Will saw, a curved, flaring plug with a ring at the end -- and began to roll up his sleeves. “I’d like you to touch yourself,” he said, “but slowly. Maintain a plateau of stimulation. We have time.”

 

***

 

Will touched himself, as directed. Which is to say he spread his legs and jerked off, languidly, into a handful of whipped cream, while Hannibal worked the plug deep in his ass, with the same practiced delicacy with which he piped macarons. Every twist of his wrist sent sensation fizzing up Will’s spine. He felt twice as drunk as he he had been by himself, on the pool deck.

There was no need for imagination at all: he could see exactly what he looked like, and so could Hannibal. There were streaks of cherry syrup all the way up his chest, mixed with the cream, and wasn’t that an evocative choice?

“You like it when I’m messy,” he said. “You can’t get there by yourself, you prissy bastard, so you need me to do it for you. Then it’s all right. Then you can _participate._ ” 

Hannibal pressed the plug up hard against his prostate, and Will had to stop, clenching his eyes shut and holding his cock firmly by the base until the urge to orgasm had passed. The plateau was very easy to overshoot.

“Are you going to fuck me?” he said. “Or are you going to make me come like this? I guess I could come all over myself and it wouldn’t make a difference. I could have done it already. I look like people have taken turns--”

That did it. Hannibal didn’t take the plug out, but he gave Will’s ass a sharp spank, which jolted the ring and made the whole contraption shift inside. It shocked a reedy whine out of Will’s throat.

“Get on your knees,” Hannibal said. He still sounded unbearably smug, but that didn’t matter anymore. His eyes were as wholly black as a cat’s when it was intent on a wounded bird. “Hands on the edge of the tub, eyes ahead.”

Will obeyed, vaguely surprised that he had knees at all that would hold him. His cock and balls hung heavily between his legs. He heard clothing being discarded, and when Hannibal climbed into the tub and pressed up against him it was skin against tacky skin.

“You’re delicious,” Hannibal murmured. He licked along Will’s spine, hot and wet, and over his shoulder. Bit, teasing, at the straining curve of his trapezius. “I could have you as a course after every meal.”

Will had to say something, or he would find himself pleading. “Sounds like a lot of work for empty calories.”

“I beg to disagree.” Hannibal stroked up the back of Will’s thighs and took hold of the stainless steel ring. “Brace yourself.”

Will had barely done so when the plug came out, only to be immediately replaced by the blunt pressure of Hannibal’s cock, opening him up and pressing mercilessly inside. Will closed his eyes and set his teeth in his own forearm to keep from crying out. Tasted sweat and whipped cream and cherries, sticky-sweet, in lieu of blood.

There wasn’t a toy in the house that was bigger than Hannibal’s cock. Which was, purely, an ego trip thing, which Will had never called him out on. It would only have turned the question back on Will’s own recently-discovered proclivities. Hannibal had used more and better lubrication than _crème pâtissière_ , thankfully, but he still had to take every inch of it, and Hannibal didn’t stop until he was nestled entirely up against Will’s ass.

Will trembled. He could feel the way his muscles fluttered reflexively around Hannibal, struggling to adjust. It was just on the edge of too much, too good. Hannibal’s grip joined his around the bathtub rim, and he mouthed over the nape of Will’s neck.

“Lovely boy,” he said, “lovely Will. So good for me. I won’t tease anymore, I promise.”

And he didn’t.

He fucked Will hard, in a steady, brutal rhythm, in and out, until Will’s body loosened under the onslaught and became entirely accommodating. Until Will moaned for it, mind blank with the pleasure of being filled. There was no other thought, and no passage of time -- only belonging, only melding together. 

Never alone.

Hannibal’s hand wrapped around his cock, then, tight and slippery with cream, and that sent Will careening off the edge: he fucked into it and came, wailing, everything in his body tightening and loosening all at once, beyond his control. 

Hannibal made a low, feral sound, and kept going. 

When Will proved unable to hold himself up any longer Hannibal pulled him close, until they were locked together by gravity, Will leaning back against Hannibal’s chest. Then he worked his hips upward into Will, again and again, until he finally snarled and stilled and emptied himself -- hard enough that Will could feel every spurt and jolt, deep inside.

Will let his head drop back, a dead weight against Hannibal’s shoulder, and closed his eyes. 

He deserved to be insensate. Let Hannibal do as he wanted. 

Hopefully at some point that involved dumping Will under their expensive, multi-functional, waterfall-simulating shower.

He drifted, to the sensation of Hannibal’s fingers possessively tracing the line of his softening cock, and the over-sensitized rim of his hole where they were still joined. Will was dripping wet, there, but it was impossible to tell whether it was his own mess or Hannibal’s or both. It could have just been the custard.

“Perhaps we’ll try chocolate, next time,” Hannibal murmured, close to his ear. Will couldn’t even muster the energy to elbow him.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Cherry trifle is usually made with crème anglaise, not crème pâtissière, but IMO anglaise doesn't have the right texture to facilitate even a cursory fuck. Will isn't sponge cake; he's not _absorbent._


End file.
